Ah, March! The launch of spring; brave daffs taking on inclement weather and bursting into flower, afternoon sunshine that brightens the day and the mood in perfect harmony, the tentative unpacking of last year’s summer wardrobe as thoughts of summer holidays drift through my mind like wisps of polar cloud on azure skies…
Oh, bloody hell.
You know what that means.
I’m going to have to shave my legs. And apply some fake tan to take the brightness of my gaelic skin down a few notches. And then, only then, does it dawn on me that there is something far more pressing than that. To confirm this clawing thought that has entered my head, I pull from the storage box ‘The Ultimate Test’.
A pair of white capri pants.
As I squeeze into them I turn away from the mirror, perhaps to put off the inevitable truth, more likely to shield myself from the sight of my winter body struggling into these tiny middle-class gleaming objects of doom.
It is as I thought. They no longer fit. In a kind of perhaps-they-are-actually-my-daughter’s-oh-bugger-no-they-are-definitely-mine kind of way. I wonder if they might have shrunk in storage? But no, it is undoubtedly me who has enlarged. I suck myself in until I am slightly giddy and I just about manage to button the waistband, but the zip flatly refuses to join in. I am beginning to see spots so I release the button and my waistline gratefully resumes its former position. White is truly the most unflattering colour to squeeze into. It highlights, well, everything. My legs look a little like the Michelin Man and it takes some effort to get the damned things off.
I check my calendar, then I check the Boden catalogue. Ok. Summer is three months away, that’s about 90 days to transform myself into this:
I will of course, need the bag and the shoes too. Oh, go on, and the top.
And so, it is with reticence that I acknowledge my body (and probably my soul, but that’s another post) needs a bit of a spring clean. Out with the jaffa cakes and in with the rice cakes. Off with the slippers and on with the running shoes. Out with the wine…
Ok, ok. We both know that’s not going to happen.
One step at a time, eh? ;-)